


Supplication, Death, and the Sea

by SpaceJackalope



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: BDSM, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Listen there's a lot going on, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Pet Names, Possessiveness, Praise Kink, Rated E for being entirely about sex with allusions to death, Religion Kink, Reunion Sex, Rope Bondage, Sappy Ending, Spring in Hieron, Spring in Hieron Spoilers, Sweet BDSM, character death decidedly off-screen but this is set in Aubade so, divine epithets, genderqueer Samot because why not, jewelry kink? listen Samothes is a metalsmith, literal body worship, sad god husbands working through some emotions via kinky sex, seasons of hieron, shifting dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-28 00:04:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20957150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceJackalope/pseuds/SpaceJackalope
Summary: Samot has been granted his wish to join Samothes in Aubade on his death. Bad news: he feels like a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad god. Good news: Samothes is game to explore that feeling (as long as he can spoil him sexually in the process).





	Supplication, Death, and the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently the writing of this coincided with me being really in my trans feelings, so Samot ended up being Not Cis in this. I didn't get specific, but it's indicated that his genital situation varies from day to day, and he does have a front hole in this. So bear that in mind, have a nice day, etc.!

The sound of waves, distant in his ears, and then it seems as though the water rushes to him, pulling him to Aubade with a riptide. At last, the sea swallows him, and there is all-silence.

He surfaces easily, but his cut face burns from the salt, and the shore is not as close as he would like. He scowls before remembering he is a god, and he supposes a perfunctory breaststroke along the current would be more dignified than letting himself be tossed limply onto the sand. He sighs heavily now, while he is (hopefully) beyond the ear of his god-king-husband, and sets to it.

When he stumbles onto the shore, there is no one to greet him. He tells himself this is fine. He is sore, tired, and out of temper, and he wants nothing so much as to take a—a _god_damn nap. Ingenuity Alive will have a bed somewhere here, but he does not know which direction to walk in, or if he will be welcome there if he tried. (He could ask. He knows what will happen if he does, though, and he’s had _quite_ enough of salt water running down his face for one day.) He lies down on the warm sand, and there sleeps deeply.

When he wakes, he stretches, and crinkles his nose, and admires how the clouds above him have turned pink with the now-setting sun. Samothes is beside him, knitting and watching the rise and fall of the Traitor’s chest as he breathes. Samot cannot bear to look the Sun-Maker in the face, so he does not realize he, and not the sunset, is being admired.

“You’ve cut your hair, Samot,” says his husband, voice as soft as lamb’s wool, and Samot breaks into such horrible, full-body sobs it’s a wonder he can draw breath between them, so Samothes wraps his arms around him and kisses the top of his head and makes soothing noises. “It’s alright, my love. It’s alright, I’ve got you. I’m here, and I love you.” When his body is finally beyond crying, Samot meets his lively brown eyes, and sees a smile there. He smiles bravely back.

“I was afraid,” he tries to explain.

“So was I.”

Samot shakes his head. “That you didn’t mean it, when we spoke through the mask. Or that you only forgave me because you thought you’d never have to see me again. Or that it was faked.”

“Yes,” Samothes agrees.

“Have you got any stores of mercy left? I may have to prevail on you again.”

Samothes kisses his forehead. “Granted.”

“I nearly destroyed Hieron.”

“I forgive you.”

“I’m only here by the grace of Hadrian.”

“Blessed be Hadrian, Wolf-Killer.”

This is remarkably unhelpful to the hollow feeling in Samot’s chest. “I feel like shit,” he complains.

“I’ll take you home.” (Ah, so there, he would not be forced to ask.) “Can you walk, or shall I carry you?” He could walk, but he would rather be held. He sees Samothes realize this with an indulgent smile, and he wraps his arms around his husband’s neck with relief as he is scooped up.

“You washed up in the district of Cartwright House. You _would_,” he is told. They pass a small open-air theatre, a school, and some musicians playing an unsuccessful experiment that starts shifting into something good just before he can no longer hear it. People are staring at them, which isn’t new, and he wishes they weren’t, which is. He shuts his eyes and turns his face into Samothes’ chest.

When he opens them, they are already inside the castle, doors opening for them untouched. They come to a bathing chamber, with a tub designed more like a small swimming pool. Not big enough for laps, but big enough for two of Samot to float end-to-end, and deep enough he could stand up and still be covered to his chest. Samothes lowers him into it, still fully clothed. Samot squeaks in surprise.

“Can you wash yourself, or are you too sleepy?”

Samot, peeling his shirt off and throwing it to the tiled floor, grimaces. When he was a boy, still new to ownership of a body, their father Samol had thrown him into a fine enamel tub where his apple orchard ended and his garden began, and scrubbed him clean. Twice weekly in theory, daily in practice (he couldn’t seem to work out how to lie on his stomach to watch bugs without becoming grubby), until he was able to demonstrate he could and would consistently bathe himself. He remembers how the soap would run into his eyes, and the roughness of Samol’s favorite bath-brush. It came as something of a surprise that baths did not generally hurt, so he has retained a distaste for being washed, and even for bathing in company. “I’m awake now,” he says simply. Samothes winks and departs.

Samot opens his mouth to ask him to come back and hand him a towel, but there’s one by the side of the tub, just in the periphery of his vision. He’s fairly sure it wasn’t there before, and quite sure the bamboo box beside it wasn’t. He pops it open and snorts out a half-laugh: the soap has a wolf’s silhouette stamped into it. He sniffs it; it smells like wine. The shampoo is rosehip, and there’s a horn-handled straight razor for him, bubblebath and bath bombs, aftershave and lotion. He scrubs and soaks, shaves off the hair under his arms and, using the mirror in the lid of his box, the thatch of half-beard he’s grown. There’s a painful gash across the bridge of his nose, and some minor scrapes peppered over his body, but he looks less like death warmed over.

The first door he tries is a dressing room. It’s obviously meant for him, as it is full of the smells of fresh bread and snow approaching, residual magic too fresh for the room to have existed this morning. There’s a set of shallow drawers full of soft, delicate underclothes. He opens one drawer too many, and catches a pair of undershorts still materializing, threads lengthening and weaving themselves. He still feels like shit and is angry about it. He wants to feel like the Boy-King in Leisure, bratty and elegant, taking his husband to bed until he’s had his fill. Well. At least he can dress the part. He finds a camisole and shorts the color and texture of pale pink peonies, lines his eyes with robin’s-egg blue, slides on anklets with stones in the same pale shades. And, at the last second, he pulls on his white fur cloak, a twin of the one he’d given Hadrian down to the finely-stitched repair in the lining over his ribs, where he’d once been stabbed.

It’s a little anticlimactic to find the bedroom empty. He knows he _can_ lie on the bed, and wants to, but suddenly realizes he wants to _earn_ it. When Samothes comes through the hallway door with a tray of charcuterie and a bottle of mango juice, he finds Samot kneeling by the low fire, eyes closed peacefully, hair nearly glowing where it reflects the light. Samot meets his eyes and Samothes sucks in a breath, and Samot thinks _oh_. “You’re _nervous_,” he whispers.

Samothes smiles ruefully. “Aren’t you? I feel like we’re on our first date.” He sits, placing the tray between them like a table.

“No.” On their first date, Samothes brought a guitar and sang to him. He claimed to have invented the love song, but Samot had heard mortals sing their own, and told him neither love nor music required divine inspiration, before kissing his silly, dear mouth and promising that he did _not_ mean it wasn’t the most perfect love song he’d heard, that a thing did not need to be _the first_ to be beautiful, or useful, or inspired. “I don’t think I was in my underwear on our first date,” he teased, for the pleasure of making Samothes look at his thighs and blush.

His husband pours him a glass of juice. He makes some effort to drink it, but mostly it goes untouched as they talk. How big is the island, how does it work, tell me who lives here? What projects is Samothes working on, are the plants and animals of Aubade much the same as those of Hieron, tell me everything? Eventually, Samothes catches one of Samot’s hands mid-gesture and kisses it. “You’ve barely touched your food,” he says gently, “and you haven’t healed your cuts. Do you need more sleep?” Samot shakes his head. “Tell me what you want, husband,” Samothes commands, voice quiet.

Samot struggles with his voice. “I feel low, and lowly, and despicable. I don’t feel worthy of food, or you, or even myself. I tried to heal my face, and—couldn’t. I think I’m more Word Eater than god at the moment. So I want, my lord, to sit at your feet and take orders until you decide I’m good enough to be thrown onto your bed and fucked.”

Samothes drops a strawberry.

“I also want you to spank me, but I know better than to ask for that.” Samothes might spank him on a particularly lovely day, if he flutters his eyelashes, but never when he’s actually upset. “But maybe you’d be willing to tell me I’m pretty. I don’t feel it, but I can _see_ how you’ve been looking at me, so I know it wouldn’t be a lie.”

Samothes leans across the tray and kisses Samot, softly, and then again, with tongue and teeth in it. “My _beautiful_ wolf boy, of course I will take care of you. And I’ll worship you while I’m at it, for I have been too long without my god’s favor.” Samot crinkles his nose at that, and Samothes taps the underside of his chin in rebuke. “Shush, I’ll worship you if I please, brat.” Samot laughs fully, for the first time in forever, and relents. After all, Ingenuity Alive has been worshipping him since before Samot was even a god. He can hardly expect a bad mood to stop him now.

Samothes moves the tray of food to a small table beside one of the armchairs flanking the hearth, and crosses to a green-lacquered cabinet. “Turn around,” he tells Samot, who shuffles around but looks over his shoulder. Samothes catches him and makes a shooing motion with one hand. Samot pouts and faces away. “Hmmm,” Samothes rumbles, “what have you got on underneath today?”

“I wasn’t listening, what was the question?”

“Can you take a cock ring, O King of Leisure?”

“Lovely idea, but I’ve got a cunt today.” There is a clinking sound, and the Artificer whistles a tune in satisfaction. Samot imagines what he is pulling out of the cabinet and squirms in anticipation. When Samothes returns to the hearthside, he sits in the brandy leather armchair and tosses a pillow to the floor. Samot kneels on it without being told and makes bold enough to rest his chin on Samothes’ knee. Ingenuity runs a hand through Samot’s shorn hair.

“How do you feel about a collar?”

“Oh! _Please_.”

Samothes tilts his head up and back, and he dangles the “collar” so Samot can see it first. It’s a silver dollar from old Marielda, with the sun on one side and an open book on the other, strung on a long dove gray velvet ribbon. Samothes ties it so the coin rests in the hollow of Samot’s throat, sun facing out, and loops it around his neck and back, to tie a loose bow below the coin. Samot swallows hard. He knows his face is scarlet. Samothes coaxes him to rest his temple against Samothes’ knees before sliding a chocolate-covered almond into his mouth. Ah. So he was going to dom Samot into taking care of himself. Samot makes a contented sound, full of affection, and chews.

When Samothes decides he’s eaten enough to be getting on with, he strokes Samot’s cheek with the back of his hand. “We’re going to move to the bed now, because I’m not going to be able to maintain a boner if I keep wondering whether your knees hurt.”

Samothes pulls off Samot’s cloak and throws it on the bed like a blanket and seats himself on top like it’s a throne, pulling Samot to straddle his lap, kissing his throat. Samot sighs happily, relaxing into the Sun-Maker’s warmth. He can feel the other man’s pulse now, thrumming gently where lips meet throat, where thighs meet thighs. Samothes slides his hands underneath the camisole, curves one hand around the small of Samot’s back and skims the other one up, across his ribs, to rest over his heart. Samot arcs his body and shifts his center of gravity to help, but crosses his own wrists behind his back and does not return the touch, only leaning into what is given. 

“That feels so _nice_, my lord,” he whispers, though the word is woefully inadequate. His voice sounds raspy and shaky to his own ears. Samothes gives him a sweet nip on the jaw. He slides his right hand away from Samot’s heart to cup his crotch proprietorially, pressing the heel of his palm down where it will feel the best and sliding his fingertips across the length of his front hole. Samot keens and bucks his hips.

“Needy brat,” Samothes teases in a haughty voice, before saying, in a hushed, shy tone: “you’re so wet, all for _me_.” Samot nods enthusiastically, then watches Samothes’ beautiful lips tremble, just slightly, as the Artificer stares up into Samot’s face like he’s afraid this is a dream he might wake up from at any second.

Samot leans in to gently kiss the top of his head, bumps their noses together affectionately, and tells him to “Take a breather, sweetheart.”

Samothes shuts his eyes, and they let the moment stretch out peacefully.

“Okay,” he says, when he’s ready. “Raise your arms above your head.” Samot cooperates, letting the undershirt be pulled off and thrown aside, shivering when the Metalsmith flicks one of the silver nipple piercings he’d made himself. He lifts Samot, strong hands around his waist, and tosses him off his lap so that he rolls, breathless, onto his back at the foot of the bed. Samot’s legs kick in the air reflexively, and Samothes grabs one thigh and pulls up, using it to lever Samot’s lower body away from the bed to give him access to pull his shorts off. Samot, flustered, tries to arrange his limbs into something sexier than the posture of an unexpectedly flipped-over turtle. His husband, still dressed in soft pants and an open linen robe, surveys him, a self-satisfied smile on his face. Samot closes his eyes most of the way and admires him through his eyelashes. He’s really _impossibly_ handsome.

“Kneel.” Samot does. Samothes tsks, tweaks one of his nipple piercings again. “Come, now. Spread your thighs for me like a good offering, Wolf.”

Samot shivers with his whole body, skin electric, and slides his knees apart. He _feels_ like an offering, for some intricate ritual purely of his own imagination. A pretty man singled out to be pampered and ravished in exchange for divine mercy. “_Fuck_.”

“Was that a joke?” the King-God asks, eyes merry, mouth stern.

“No!” Samot replies. It’s the truth, but he can’t help laughing.

“It was!” Samothes cries, feigning reproach. He sighs heavily. “And when there are so many better uses for your pretty mouth, too.” And he presses two fingertips against Samot’s lower lip, pushing into his mouth. Samot whimpers and curls his tongue around them. The Artificer puts his lips to his ear. “Suck, worshipper.” He thrusts his fingers shallowly. Samot sucks eagerly, trying to caress the god’s skin with his tongue, trying to communicate something of what he’s feeling.

When Samothes withdraws his fingers, he drags them across Samot’s cheek to rub the spit off. His Most Honorable Contradiction’s cheeks burn, and his head falls forward as he pants, overwhelmed and pleasantly humiliated, body aching with desire. He isn’t really paying attention to what the Artificer Divine is doing until the latter tosses something onto the bed. His inner narration informs him, with a calm incongruous with his physical state, that it’s a spreader bar. “My God,” he says, with all his jackrabbiting heart behind the words, “you are so good to me.” Samothes kisses him deeply.

Samothes made the bar with soft rope ties instead of cuffs, easier to adjust or release. Samot’s anklets clatter cheerfully as he’s nudged into place. Ingenuity drops a kiss onto his shoulder before shifting to look him in the face. “Comfortable?”

“Slightly uncomfortable, but in an exciting way.” He smiles easily. He feels…better. There is very little, he supposes, that cannot be helped by being told you are loved, and it has started to sink in. Samothes tenderly runs his hand through Samot’s hair, coming to rest on the back of the skull. He says nothing, but Samot knows he has taken note of the smile and been comforted by it.

“You keep putting your hands behind your back.” He’s doing it now, even, and had not noticed. “Would you like me to tie them?”

“Oh! Yes, thank you, but I don’t _need_ it, if it doesn’t suit your plan.”

The corners of Samothes’ mouth turn up, and his eyes sparkle. He makes a gesture with one hand that implies he’s showing great largesse, and tells him, arch and indulgent: “I shall let you have it, pet. You’re being such a _good_ boy.”

Samot shivers and sits up straighter, as his husband knew he would. “Thank you, my lord,” he replies, meek and sweet. Samothes gives him a suspicious look. Samot pretends not to notice, a smile tugging at his face.

Samothes ties his wrists in the crossed position he keeps defaulting to and makes Samot confirm it feels good before turning the Boy-King’s face to the right, looking out into the room. “Eyes here,” he tells him, before stepping into his line of sight. And _then_, oh, he slides the robe off his shoulders. Samot makes an undignified noise of thirst. Samothes smirks and slides his pants off as well, turning in a slow circle to let Samot look him over. He’s wearing the cock ring he’d offered to Samot earlier.

“Samothes,” says the Last Wolf Alive, voice velvety, “when this scene is over, I am going to run my hands over every inch of you.”

The Artificer is too much on his dignity to blush at this, but his fingers flex in a release of nervous energy his husband knows well. He frames Samot’s face with his hands and kisses his lips once—no, twice more—before climbing onto the bed behind him and manhandling Samot so that his knees frame Samothes’, his back against the Sun-Maker’s chest. He wraps one arm supportively, possessively, across Samot’s own chest so that His Leisure will not need to work as hard to maintain his balance, bound as he is, and taps Samot’s inner thigh with the two fingers that had been in his mouth earlier. “I’m going to bring you off now,” Samothes tells him.

_Finally_, Samot thinks, but he prefers being pliant to being bratty at the moment, so he swallows the word and hums happily as Samothes gently slides into him and scissors his fingers. He’s so wet he can hear the slick sound of it, which makes him bite his lip, hyper-conscious of his body, the heat of it, how he keeps rippling into goosebumps, the dampness of his own saliva still on his lower lip and cheek. And, above all, the skin-warmed Marielda coin, tied at his throat. He has Samothes’ wedding ring on his finger, has never removed it, wonders if he noticed. He’ll call attention to it later, so that Samothes will have abundant evidence of his devotion, he thinks with a soft laugh, rocking his hips through welcoming a third finger inside.

Samothes rocks his palm against him in a mirror of the way he touched him earlier, before he had lost his composure. Applying pressurein the best places while curling his fingers into Samot’s sweet spot. Samot half-screams and half-laughs when he comes, head falling back against Samothes’ strong shoulder. Samothes kisses him through it, along his neck and jaw and the corner of his mouth. Samot blinks away tears from the intensity. Samothes makes soothing noises. Samot babbles: “I love you, I never stopped loving you, I know I told you before, but I need you to _know_ it.”

“I do, I promise. I would pretend you were lying beside me, every night. The only way I could sleep.” Samot makes a small, broken sound. Samothes kisses his temple. “Do you need to stop?”

Samot looks profoundly scandalized. “_No_. I want you to give me _another_.”

Samothes relaxes, chuckling, and slides his cock into Samot, who lets out a “wonderful” that’s mostly air.

“Tell me how it feels to have me inside you again,” Ingenuity Alive prompts, nuzzling against the Wolf’s head, kissing the tender place behind his ear.

“Feels _right_.” Samothes hums approval. “Feels like you’re staking a claim, like you’re going to _keep me_.”

“Is that what you want, pretty boy?” Samothes asks, and there’s a reverberation there, an echo across time, casting back to a sun-warm blanket in a field of wildflowers, where the Artificer Divine had become the Last Wolf’s first lover. “You want me to make my home between your thighs? Be my pet? My fucktoy? My sweetmeat?” Samot, beyond speech, nods his head rapidly. “I’ll luxe you up,” Samothes promises, “and bed you every night. Oh, my darling pink-cheeked _God_, you’re going to be my _favorite_ indulgence.” The words are new, but the sentiment is not, and Samot shakes with emotion. It’s dirty, but it’s more than talk, it’s an oath. Samothes pledging himself anew to Samot.

Samot comes again, this orgasm building smoothly and forcefully, like an ocean wave.

Samothes whispers praise into his skull, caressing his inner thigh. Samot wiggles in his constraints, sensitive skin startled into little aftershocks. He tries to speak, but only manages “_Ah—ahhh_.” Samothes moves his hand, strokes Samot’s brow and drops delicate kisses across his shoulders until he’s been gentled, until his breathing is easy.

“How are you doing, dear one?”

Samot understands the implied question. “I—_fuck_—I can manage one more, my lord?”

“You’re wonderful,” Samothes coos.

“I want a glass of water first, please.” He needs the break, and his mouth is dry, in a way that’s turning unsexy.

“Mm, of course. Good boy for asking.”

Samothes slides out and helps him sit upright on his haunches before bringing a cool glass. He offers to release Samot’s hands, but receives a shake of the head, and simply holds it to his lips. When Samot is sated, Samothes strokes his back and watches him give a boneless little sway at the pressure. He’s going to need a change of position. “I’m going to lay you flat, pet. Do you want to be on your back or your face?”

Samot blinks dreamily a couple times. “My face, I _think_.” Then, as an afterthought: “My sweet lord, etcetera.” Samothes lets out a pleased laugh. Samot’s gone both floaty and mouthy; he couldn’t have asked for a better result. He’s starting to seem like _himself_ again.

“If you ask nicely, I’ll let you change your mind.” Ingenuity fluffs a pillow and carefully, supporting Samot’s core, helps him tip forward and down into it. Chest against the mattress, lower body elevated. He stands where Samot can see him, strokes the velvet of his cropped hair until he opens his eyes to watch Samothes pull the cock ring off. He smiles, sweetly satisfied by the sight and the caress, and lets his eyes close again.

Samothes kneels behind him and kisses the dimples that form at Samot’s lower back, above his ass. “Say something nice about my cock, Wolf.”

“It’s _gorgeous_,” Samot exhales, surprisingly articulate. “Your skin is the loveliest color. And it’s so nice and _thick_. But you knew that.”

Samothes gives his ass a little pat, just enough to surprise Samot and make the flesh jiggle. “What _am _I going to do about your backtalk, dearest brat?” He does not wait for an answer, parting Samot’s folds with his thumbs and slipping the head of his cock inside. He works slowly this time, running his hands gently along Samot’s sides and kissing his spine as he takes him deeper and deeper. As courteously as if this was the first time he’d been penetrated tonight. Samot makes beautiful noises throughout, soft like snow falling. When he’s as deep as he can get, he stills, both gods’ thighs aching with tension. “Beg for me, pretty boy.”

Samot’s eyelids stir. “Thrust, and I _might _let you have a turn at supplication afterwards.” Samothes curses. “Do not tarry, my lord,” the Knower of Things teases. Samothes’ brain fractures a little. Naturally, he gives Samot what he wants. And he’s so hot and tight and wet and _good_, contracting his muscles around Samothes’ cock as much as he is able, relaxed and content and _taking it_ so sweetly. Samothes comes first, head thrown back, vision blurred.

When he can, he pulls out, shifts up the bed to kiss Samot’s face. “I told you I can do another,” Samot insists, voice suddenly small, like he thinks he might have disappointed.

“After I’ve untied you, my cherished wolf. You took my breath away, I simply couldn’t last.” The tide between them is shifting, like a magnet with its poles reversed. He releases Samot’s arms, rubbing the wrists gently. Samot brings them up to fold under his head. Samothes frees his ankles next, discarding the spreader bar and removing Samot’s jeweled anklets while he’s at it. He rubs the ligature marks here, too, before getting up for a washcloth. Samot has straightened his legs when he returns, shifting them to let Samothes clean off the come dripping down his thighs.

Samothes lies on his back beside the God of Books and Wine. “How do you feel?”

“I feel like your husband,” Samot replies, turning to meet his eyes. His eyes are calm. “And your king, and your god.” Samothes’ face shines. “Come attend me, sunshine.” And the word shimmers in the air between them; Samothes’ particular private name, as pretty boy is Samot’s. He cuddles against Samot’s side and lets his mouth be kissed. Samot runs his hands across him—not, in his tiredness, across every inch of him, but across every part he can reach, murmuring gentle objectification in his ear. Samothes basks, deliriously happy, feeling caught and cuddled and desired.

“Now. Give me one last climax, best-beloved?” Samot, exhaustion lessened, rolls onto his back and pulls his legs open. Leisurely, imperiously. His fingers fumble briefly at his throat, and Samothes realizes with a shiver that he has turned the coin so that the book faces out. He prostrates himself, serving Samot with his mouth. The King in Leisure caresses Samothes’ curls. “That’s wonderful, my beauty. Worship me, Sun-Maker, just like that, you love it, don’t you, you’re so needy, gorgeous, the most beautiful thing that’s ever lived, give me a finger? Oh, that’s so good, _you’re_ so good, my first and most devoted follower…” And he cries out, hips bucking, clenching around Samothes’s finger, the hot concentration of nerves he’s been sucking on pulsing with the electricity of his rise and fall and quieting.

Samothes returns to his side. They join hands. It feels like a declaration. “Your face is healed,” Samothes observes quietly. Samot touches the bridge of his nose in surprise.

“So it is. Thank you, Samothes.”

Ingenuity kisses the place the worst cut had been. “What else may I do for you, my lord?”

Samot smiles, shutting his eyes. “I’m too bone-happy to even dream, sunshine. You’ve been so good to me.” Samothes embraces him, and their bodies find a tangle they can sleep in.

Well before they are ready to wake, Primo will knock on the door to tell them to dress and come quickly, for there are new arrivals on the island, Physicality, Confidence, and Charter Castille, and they will all have a weepy, awkward, joyful, achingly exhausting breakfast together. But right now, they expect to sleep as long as they wish, and so they watch each other through their eyelashes, each hoping to fall asleep second, to see his husband’s face go blissfully and trustingly into sleep. The world narrows to their marriage-bed, as it has so many times before, long ago. And the sound of waves, distant in their ears, play their lullaby.

**Author's Note:**

> If Art didn't let them reunite, I don't know if my poor gay heart could have handled it!!
> 
> Title after Jherek Bischoff's song "Insomnia, Death, and the Sea."
> 
> You can follow me on Tumblr as Cartograffiti, and on Pillowfort as Jackalope!
> 
> You might enjoy some of my other podcast fics--there's some Penumbra Podcast, The Adventure Zone, Wolf 359, and The Magnus Archives in there. <3


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